Valentine's Day
Not a single card, not one.
Love is in the air
Tuesday, February 15, 2000, 12 Arthur Askey Way
Vincent Ludlow, my next-door neighbour, knocked on my door at 11.30 tonight and asked if I could "let him 'ave a few fags until the mornin'."
I told him that I was a life-long non-smoker. He looked back at me with an expression of disbelief.
"You don't smoke?" he checked.
"No," I said, and gave him a brief talk about the dangers of smoking, citing the Royal College of Physicians' latest report. I was interrupted by his wife, Peggy, shouting, "'urry up, Vince, I'm bleedin' gaspin' 'ere", from their doorstep.
Two of their three big dogs escaped from the house and preceded to fight in my front garden. "Satan! Devil!" roared Ludlow. "Get back in the 'ouse!"
The ill-trained animals ignored their master and carried on with their fight. Eventually, they were joined by the third dog, Kane, who entered the fray with evident enjoyment. Mrs Ludlow ran from the house with a sweeping brush and set about the dogs with the wooden handle. They were quickly subdued, and slunk back into the house with their tails between their powerful legs. "Bleeders," said Ludlow, fondly, as he watched them go. I couldn't take my eyes off Peggy Ludlow: she was panting from her exertions, causing her magnificent bosom to rise and fall beneath her food-stained dressing gown. She looked like a beautiful, long-haired version of Ann Widdicombe. I felt my manhood stir for the first time in many months.
Wednesday, February 16
This morning, I saw Peggy Ludlow in her back garden, hanging washing on the line. I splashed a little Ralph Lauren's Polo on to my cheeks and hurried down to my own garden, where I pretended to examine the tree. I glanced over the fence. Peggy was wearing full make-up, her raven hair was blowing in the wind. She held a clothes peg tantalisingly between her carmine lips. She nodded to me.
"Just looking at my tree," I croaked.
"The last bloke what lived in your 'ouse murdered his brother-in-law then 'ung himself from that tree," she said with obvious relish. I went back inside and phoned the homeless unit. I left a message on Pamela Pigg's voicemail, demanding an immediate transfer.
Friday, February 18
Nigel came round tonight and brought me a bunch of Stargazer lilies. As he handed them to me, he said, "Congratulations on finally coming out, Moley."
After I had vehemently protested my heterosexuality, Nigel said, "Well, I was told by a council worker that you had claimed on an official form that you were a gay single father. You're obviously in denial."
He and his partner, Cliff, have planned a "coming out" dinner party for me. "It'll just be a few close friends," he said. "Cliff's doing the Naked Chef's aubergine-and-pasta bake." I told him that I loathed aubergines, and he snatched the lilies back and left. A pity. He is my best, indeed only, friend and I need to confess to somebody about my growing passion for Mrs Peggy Ludlow.
Saturday, February 19
Glenn's maths homework project is to draw a graph illustrating the result of the Livingstone, Dobson, Jackson mayoral race. Clorette Ludlow, the eldest daughter, is pregnant! I heard the row through the party-wall. Peggy screamed, "Why din't you take precautions, you stupid mare?" Clorette screamed back "Tony an' Cherie slipped up, an' they're both brain-boxes, so shurrup, our mam". I fear that the PM and his wife are not setting a good example to the nation's young, contraception wise.
Sunday, February 20
Glenn is in despair over his maths homework: "It's no good, dad," he said after putting the Electoral College results into his calculator. "It don't matter how I do the percentages, I still can't work out how Mr Dobson won." I wrote a note to the school saying that the boy had tried his best.
The perils of prawn tempura
Sunday, February 20, Arthur Askey Way (Continued)
Nigel rang and apologised for his faux pas about my sexual orientation. He begged me to go to dinner tonight, saying Cliff, his partner, was longing to meet me.
Just returned from dinner. There was one other guest, a gay headmaster, who until recently was having a clandestine affair with his school caretaker, who broke it off when he heard his headmaster lover on local radio hypocritically arguing for the retention of Clause 28.
Glenn was visiting his mother's, so I took William with me — much to the annoyance of Cliff. On opening the door to their loft apartment in the old dog- biscuit factory alongside the canal, Cliff said, "This is a kiddiewinkie-free zone, stranger." I said, "I'm Adrian Mole, and this is William." Cliff said, "This is not a child-friendly household, we have objets d'art and white slip covers. ." Nigel hurried across the industrial flooring to greet us. "Don't mind Cliff, Aidy, he's famously rude." Cliff smirked, and went to a stainless-steel kitchen area, where he began to throw whiskery prawns into a batter and then into a smoking wok.
The headmaster arrived and proceeded to yak on in tedious detail about his bust-up with the caretaker. I tried to change the conversation by asking Nigel about his new job as a feng-shui adviser, but the odious Cliff interrupted me: "We have a house rule, Mole, no work talk at la table. "
It was the first time I had eaten Japanese food cooked by an Englishman. William eyed the sushi with alarm and whispered, "Please, Dad, can I have a bowl of Coco Pops." The headmaster suspended his whispered monologue to Cliff about the goings-on in the boiler room to lecture William on the perils of E numbers in breakfast cereals. I left soon after I had initiated an argument about the prawn tempura. I told Cliff that he should have cooked it at the last moment before serving rather than trying to keep it warm on a hostess trolley for 20 minutes. He went berserk. When we got home, Glenn told me that Peggy Ludlow had called round to borrow some HP sauce. I forgot myself and asked Glenn what Peggy was wearing. He said, "A leopardskin." I said, "A leopardskin what? He said, "Just a leopardskin, dad." I slept fitfully. Why am I sexually attracted to such a common woman?
Monday, February 21
The BBC Drama Department has finally returned the script of my serial killer comedy, The White Van. The letter said, "This department is not minded to produce a 12-part series about a serial killer who uses a white van for his nefarious activities. Especially as this is Mr William Hague's chosen mode of transport for his "Keep The Pound" campaign.
Tuesday, February 22
Nigel is living here temporarily. He and Cliff are finished. It seems the prawn tempura row went on after I left and continued non-stop for almost two days. Nigel turned up on my doorstep sobbing. To comfort him I told him that I hated Cliff. Nigel whined, "But I lurve him," like one of those pathetic trailer-trash morons on the Jerry Springer Show.
Wednesday, February 23
Pamela Pigg from the Homeless Unit called unexpectedly this afternoon. She said that an anonymous caller had left a message on her voicemail exposing me as a heterosexual who'd lied about my sexuality in order to procure a council house. Fortunately, I was half-way through bleaching Nigel's roots at the time, so she took in the scene, apologised and left.
Sunday, February 27
Leicester won the Worthington Cup today. Glenn said, "Dad, I ain't never been so 'appy." For once, I didn't correct the boy's grammar.
The loneliness of the cross country runner
Monday, February 28, 2000, Arthur Askey Way